Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, Life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown:
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return,
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot;
But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more-
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
'Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we called the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac❜d.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe, and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home-
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone, and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this, still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere-
Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the whileWould'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile)— Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay:
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to obtain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distrest-
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now farewell!-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half-succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.
RIDING TOGETHER.
WILLIAM MORRIS.
[Mr. Morris, who has evidently taken Chaucer for his model, is one of the purest and most thoroughly English of any of our recent poets. He was born at Walthamstow, March 24, 1834, and educated at Marlbro' College and Exeter College, Oxford, where he took his degree about 1850. His principal works are his "Defence of Guenevere, and other Poems," 1856; "The Life and Death of Jason," 1867; and "The Earthly Paradise," 1868. Of the latter work the second and concluding volume appeared in Nov. 1869.]
FOR many, many days together the wind blew steady from the east;
For many days hot grew the weather, about the time of our Lady's Feast;
For many days we rode together, yet met with neither friend nor
Hotter and clearer grew the weather, steadily did the east wind blow.
We saw not the trees in the hot bright weather, clear cut with shadows very black,
As freely we rode on together with helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often as we rode together, we, looking down the green-bank'd stream,
Saw flowers in the sunny weather, and saw the bubble-making bream;
And in the night lay down together, and hung about our heads the rood,
Or watch'd night-long in dewy weather, the while the moon did watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together, straight out the
As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, with faces turned towards the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together, as thick we saw the Pagans ride;
His eager face in the clear fresh weather shone out that last. time by my side.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together-it rocked to the crash of the meeting spears;
Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather, the elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we rolled and writhed together, I threw my arms above my head,
For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together, he waited the death-stroke there in his place,
With thoughts of death in the lovely weather, gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.
Madly I fought as we fought together; in vain: the little Christian
The Pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather the river drowns lowlaying land.
They bound my blood-stained hands together; they bound his corpse to nod by my side;
Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, with clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together-my prison bars are thick and strong;
I take no heed of any weather; the sweet saints grant I live not long!
(By permission of the Author.)
THE SOUL'S ERRAND.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
[Raleigh, the poet, soldier, navigator, politician and courtier, was born 1552, and beheaded 1618. His poetry is very beautiful, and expressed in the quaint but vigorous style of the period. Among his political and other works may be mentioned his "Maxims of State," the "Cabinet Council," and his "Advice to his Son." His unfinished work, the "History of the World," was written during his twelve years' imprisonment in the Tower.]
Go, soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand!
Fear not to touch the best,
And truth shall be thy warrant;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.
Go, tell the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the church it shows
What's good and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' actions,
Not lov'd unless they give,
Not strong but by their factions
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.
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